


Adventures of an Artificer: After Dark

by thievinghippo



Series: Bethroot Cadash [9]
Category: Dragon Age (Video Games), Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-02-23
Updated: 2016-10-16
Packaged: 2018-03-14 18:51:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,067
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3421682
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thievinghippo/pseuds/thievinghippo
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>M or E rated stories, prompt fics and drabbles involving Bethroot Cadash and Blackwall. The stories will all fit in the same continuity as the T rated 'Adventures of an Artificer.'</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Hidden Alcoves

Bethroot slips her hand in his as soon as they’re out of sight of the camp.

Blackwall squeezes her fingers gently, amazed at the comfort such a small gesture brings him. He’s grateful she asked if he wanted to go on a walk once they settled in camp. Even with bandits and wild animals in the area, he didn’t think he could stay there for much longer or he might go mad. Hawke decided to camp with them tonight in Crestwood, before starting her trek to the Western Approach and wanted only to talk about the Wardens, looking at him again and again expectantly, as if he had answers to give her. Bethroot tried to explain as they left camp; both Hawke’s lover and her brother are Wardens so this fight with Corypheus means _everything_ to the Champion of Kirkwall.

And Blackwall’s just a fucking pretender who only wants to stop lying but knows he can do anything but. He’s stuck in the trap of his own making, talking in circles and trying to recite platitudes without saying an actual concrete word.

The slight drizzle of rain puts a bit of a damper on the walk, but Blackwall doesn’t care. It’s almost warm, the rain, and the further they get from camp, the more relief he feels. Enough relief to put his arm around Bethroot’s shoulders as they walk. She counters at once, stepping closer and wrapping her arm around his waist. But then they take a step and the difference in their strides become apparent.

Out in the field, as they walked, Blackwall’s always slightly behind on her left, ready to surge ahead if enemies approach. He’s gotten used to her gait as they go from place to place, but now realizes walking besides her with his arm around her shoulders is a very different thing.

“Sorry,” Bethroot says with a laugh. “Try again?”

It takes a few steps before they find a pace that works for them both, but then they do. They walk in a large circle around the camp, wanting to be within shouting distance if they met something they couldn’t handle. There’s silence between them, which he’s grateful for, not wanting to talk about Grey Wardens or the Calling - remembering the fear in her eyes as she turned back to him in the smuggler’s cave, asking “And also you, Blackwall?” - or anything that would add one more lie to the never ending pile.

He realizes after a bit she’s searching for something. “What are you looking for?” he asks, curious despite himself.

“I noticed an alcove when we were on our way to meet Hawke,” she says, hooking her fingers on the belt of his gambeson. “I’d like to find it.” She stops, and bites her lower lip as she looks around. Her eyes light up as she looks east. “There is it, just up the hill.”

They walk up the hill and Blackwall sees the place she means. It’s a quiet little corner, nestled into the large mound of rocks, letting them stand out of the rain, completely unnoticed. “How in the world did you see this place?” he asks.

“Once a smuggler, always a smuggler,” Bethroot says, a sheepish grin on her face. “I always look for places to hide things, even now. I can’t help it.” She takes off her bow and quiver from her back and places them on the ground, within easy reach. “Mind disarming for a bit?”

She steps up on a flat rock and Blackwall’s pulse quickens, understanding why she brought him here. So without any words, he unbuckles his sword belt, unstraps his shield and puts them carefully next to her weapons, before going a step further and removing his chestpiece.

Thanks to the rock she stands on, they’re almost the same height and he wastes no time, one hand on her ass and one in her hair, kissing her fiercely. She kisses him right back, slipping her tongue between his lips.

Three days. It’s been three bloody days since he’s been able to touch her like this. Their first night in Crestwood, she ended up sharing a tent with the requisition officer, whose name Blackwall can never remember. Then last night they slept on the floor of a spare room in the village, along with Varric and Dorian, snug in their separate bedrolls. And tonight she’ll probably end up sharing a tent with Hawke. But for now they have this alcove.

They kiss until it almost seems cruel, knowing he won’t be able to feel her naked skin against his own. But then Bethroot breaks away, panting. Her lips are swollen and he sees a hint of redness, most likely from his beard, on her chin. “Switch places with me,” she says, her voice as urgent as he’s ever heard as she steps off the rock.

“But I won’t be able to-”

“ _Please._ _”_

Her voice is insistent, so he complies and steps onto the rock. The moment he turns around to face her, Bethroot’s hands are working to undo the laces of his trousers. He’s about to ask what she’s doing, but he resolved after telling her once he thought she’d be human, not to ask any more stupid questions. Instead he says, in a questioning tone, “My lady?”

“You’ve been on edge since we ran into those Wardens fighting undead yesterday,” she says as she wraps her hand around his length. Blackwall splays his hands against the rock he’s leaning against, bracing himself as she guides his cock - already half-hard - out of his smalls. Every word she says is true. Just like Bethroot to notice. And just like Bethroot to want to do something about it.

She strokes once and his cock hardens in her hand as if she ordered it to do so. Her gloves are on the ground, and her hands are warm, _so warm_ , as she strokes lightly. He knows he should probably say something, should probably say this is a bad idea, they might get caught or worse attacked by bandits but instead he takes off his gloves and throws them to the ground, wanting to feel her skin under his palms.

Because of the rock he stands on, Bethroot only needs to lower her head a bit to have her mouth at the same height as his cock. She looks up, meeting his eyes as he threads his fingers through her hair. Her hands grip the base of his cock while her tongue swirls around the tip.

“Fuck,” he groans, trying to keep his hips still. This will be the first time she’s used her mouth on him since their relationship started a week ago. And Blackwall can admit he’s eager, more than eager, to discover any differences between a dwarf and human mouth. “So this is to make me feel better?”

Nodding, she puts just the tip of his cock in her mouth and sucks lightly. He puts his hand on the back of her neck, guiding her to take him in a little deeper, watching her mouth open wide around him.  She pulls back, stroking where she left off and says, her voice a bit rough, “My plan working yet?”

“Oh yes,” he says weakly, not able to hold back a shiver as she moves her hands more quickly.

She takes him in her mouth again, one hand still gripping his base while the other hand holds onto his hip. He feels the inside of her cheek, a hint of her molars and lets out a gasp when the tip of his cock hits the back of her throat. Bethroot’s eyes don’t leave his as she holds him there, leaving him desperate not to buck his hips, before she moves back, coughing.

“Bethy,” he says, ready to step down to make sure she’s alright.

There’s a challenge in her eyes when she looks back up at him. “More,” she demands, squeezing the base of his cock.

Who is he to deny his lady?

Once his cock is in her mouth again, he moves his hips forward, until she can take no more of him in her mouth. Blackwall holds her head in place, reveling in the heat of her mouth, the texture of her tongue and the back of the throat, until she digs her fingers into his hips. Letting go at once, he watches as Bethroot takes a gulp of air, panting, before working him again.

His hips start to thrust, slowly at first, then speeding up, the filthy, wet sounds of his cock fucking her mouth edging him on. The pressure starts to build in his stomach and he wants to use this time to try to forget. Forget he’s going around pretending to be a Grey Warden and for just a moment instead pretend to be a man with no responsibilities in the world except caring for this woman in front of him.

He’s not going to last much longer, he realizes. Years ago, Blackwall had much better control, but they’ve only slept together four times since the night he showed up in her quarters a week ago. Not trusting himself to speak, he squeezes her shoulder, hoping she’ll understand, wanting to make sure she has the decision of what to do when he comes.

Blackwall forces his hips to still and Bethroot takes both of her hands and starts stroking his cock hard, while still sucking the tip. The realization she’s going to let him come in her mouth is too much and with a moan, his body unfurls, white-hot pleasure coursing through him, and he spills into her, closing his eyes tight as she sucks him dry.

The only sound is of their breathing after his orgasm. His legs feel slightly weak and Bethroot holds out one hand while wiping her mouth with the other. Blackwall takes her hand as he steps off the rock before bringing her knuckles to his lips. Her smile is almost shy, but then he sees how her thighs are clamped together as she rubs them slightly.

Curious, Blackwall places his hands on her hip and lifts her back up on the flat rock. He kisses her hard, and as he tastes himself on her tongue, slides his hand down her trousers and smalls. Moaning into his mouth, Bethroot spreads her legs, giving him better access.

“You’re so fucking wet,” he mutters as his fingers search for her bundle of nerves. It’s in a slightly different place than a human woman and it takes him a moment to find. But once he does, her reaction is immediate, whimpering as she buries her head in his neck. She comes almost at once, bucking into his hand as she says his name, over and over and between that and the sweet little sounds she makes, if he wasn’t already spent, he swears he’d be ready for another round.

Once Bethroot stills, Blackwall removes his hand, but not before making sure his index finger is covered in her wetness. She leans back against the rock, her breathing heavy, as Blackwall leans on his side next to her. Without a sound, Blackwall raises his hand, the one still covered in her wetness and offers her his index finger, curious what she’ll choose to do.

To his delight, she slips his finger into her mouth and licks it clean. He lets out a breathless laugh. “You minx.”

“ _Your_ minx,” she says and her voice is so earnest and she sounds so pleased with the idea he doesn’t think he can speak.

To think Bethroot wants to consider herself _his_ in any way burrows its way into his heart, knowing he has no defense for the inevitable heartbreak ahead, whenever the truth comes out. He’s lost to her completely so he simply nods his head as his fingers stroke the underside of her jaw.

They rest only for a minute or two before she straightens his smalls and laces up his trousers. “I think my plan was a success,” she says as she steps off of the rock, giving him that soft smile he’s only seen directed towards him.

“Very much so,” he says, trading Bethroot her quiver and bow for his gloves. And it’s true. He feels renewed, ready to go to back to camp where he’ll do his best to answers Hawke’s questions from the little knowledge he has from the Warden-Constable and do his best not to lie to Bethroot anymore than he has to. He’ll do whatever he can to keep that smile on her face for as long as possible.

Once they’re both armed again, they start back towards the camp - his arm around her shoulders, her arm around his waist - and their strides match after only a few steps.


	2. In From the Cold

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Based on this anon prompt from tumblr: So... what's the best the best way for dwarves and humans to do it in a tent?

It starts with whispered words as they sit in front of the campfire.

“I couldn’t stop thinking about your cock today,” Bethroot murmurs into his ear. She’s sitting cross-legged in his lap, making her tall enough so Blackwall can rest his chin on her shoulder. Most days, Blackwall would loathe to show this amount of affection in public. But Emprise du Lion is _fucking_ cold, so he’s happy to wrap his arms around his lady for a bit of extra warmth.

Her words causes the his cock to take notice, and warms his blood a bit. Blackwall looks around, wanting to make sure no one is paying them any attention. No one is. Replying in kind is an option - he could talk about her cunt forever, he thinks - but Bethroot isn’t one to usually initiate this sort of talk. So he decides to encourage her instead, wanting to hear what sort of dirty thoughts she might be having. “And what were you thinking about?” he asks, keeping his voice low so no one else can hear.

The muscles in her back tense, and Blackwall realizes she expected him to take over once she said something. Well, today he wants to hear _her_ speak filthy words, wants to see the slight blush in her cheeks as they whisper something private in full view of camp, and maybe even feel her squirm a bit in his lap.

She places her hands on his knees and says softly, “It’s a beautiful cock, you know. Kept thinking of how it feels in my hands, and in my mouth.”

The flash of pride he feels deep in his stomach is ridiculous, he knows. Beauty is something he’s never really associated with his cock before. It does what it’s supposed to do: lets him piss and fuck. “Is it, my lady?”

“Very,” Bethroot says, tilting her head just slightly, so they’re even closer. She lowers her voice then, so he can barely hear her add, “And very big.”

The truth is Blackwall has a perfectly average cock in terms in size. He’s never been one to wish for bigger, being one of the few men in Thedas content with himself. But that’s for a human. For a dwarf… Well, he’ll never forget the look of pure greed on Bethroot’s face the first time she saw him naked.

Blackwall needs to grab onto Bethroot’s hands as she twists slightly, rubbing up against his cock, already half hard, thanks to her words. “More important how you use it,” he says into her ear. “Which I’ll remind you once we get into our tent.” She wiggles against him again, and Blackwall bites his lower lip. “Remind you twice, maybe, you minx.”

“We should go now,” Bethroot says, dragging her palms up his thighs. There’s a hoarseness to her voice, something he wouldn’t mind hearing more of.

The move sends a shiver down his spine. “I’m as hard as a rock, right now, Bethy. I don’t know…”

“Don’t you want your cock inside me?” she whispers. “Think how warm we’ll be in the tent, Blackwall.”

If they walk a straight line to the northeast, they might be able to make it to their tent without anyone being the wiser. Dorian is speaking to one of the guards, while Sera is chatting up the requisition officer. “Let’s get to the bloody tent,” he says.

Bethroot jumps off his lap and turns to help him off of the ground. Once he’s up, Blackwall brings her close - to anyone in camp, it will simply look like a hug - but presses his erection into the valley between her breasts. Her breath hitches as she stands on her tiptoes, rubbing against his cock. She always did fight dirty.

With a wicked grin on her face, Bethroot turns around and marches towards their tent, Blackwall following as close as possible behind her. A quick look around tells him that no one realizes they’re leaving. A clean escape for once.

The moment after he ties the doors of the tent closed, Bethroot drags him down for a kiss. “You are a bastard,” she whispers between kisses.

“You started it,” Blackwall says with a grunt, taking off his gloves. He needs to feel Bethroot’s skin under his palms, so he gets down onto his knees, and slides his hands under her tunic. Her skin should be freezing, thanks to the wind outside the tent, but there’s nothing by warmth on his fingertips.

“So fuck me and finish it,” Bethroot challenges, and there’s an authority in her voice that makes Blackwall push back his shoulders, practically ready to salute. He’s always loved her voice, rich and deep, so unlike the tavern girls and nobles he fucked back in Orlais, with their high pitched giggles and breathy tones. Bethroot has a voice that makes a man take notice, a voice that men will listen to. His lady could ask almost anything of him in that voice, and Blackwall would be happy to comply.

His hands are on her breasts now, thumbs caressing her nipples over her breast band. Neither one of them are comfortable getting naked in a tent around camp, so fumbling fully clothed will have to do for now. They kiss again, and as she drags her nails down the back of his scalp, Blackwall can’t help but sigh into her mouth.

Her hands are unlacing his trousers then, and he breathes in slowly, waiting to feel her hand grip his cock. But instead Bethroot gives him a smirk and lays down on her side, facing away from him. Well, if she’s not going to touch him, Blackwall will have to do the job himself. He grabs his cock at the base and gives himself two swift strokes. The sound of flesh on flesh makes her turn her head. “Save that for me, please,” she says quietly.

Inside the tent, it’s dark and quiet and warm, but outside their little oasis, there are still people who might realize that he and Bethroot have disappeared from camp. So Blackwall takes care to make as little noise as possible as he settles down on the ground, her back flush with his chest. “And why should I?” Blackwall asks, keeping his voice light as he props himself on his forearm, before lightly giving himself another stroke. “Making me hard in front of the entire camp.” Reaching between her legs, Blackwall’s ready to start fucking then and there feeling how wet she is. “Not a very nice thing to do, Bethy.”

Bethroot pulls down her trousers and smalls then, and he finds his cock nestled between her ass cheeks. A thought crosses his mind - is their size difference too much for him to fuck her in the ass? They’ll have to find out at some point - but he pushes it away and focuses on the slickness of her cunt.

“I’m very nice,” she says, placing her hand on top of his. There’s an urgency in her voice now, as she adds, “Let me show you.”

“Is that what you think?” Blackwall says, taking his cock in hand with a squeeze, and brushing it against Bethroot’s cunt, feeling her wetness against the sensitive skin. At the contact, she lets out a small whimper that could possibly be the death of him. “You think you’ve been a good girl?”

“Yes,” she says at once, her voice practically a moan. “Such a good girl.”

Blackwall bites his lower lip as she reaches back and slides her hand down the side of his trousers, rubbing circles into his hip. Inhaling sharply, he pushes into her cunt just the slightest bit, but enough so his cock protests, desperate for more of her warmth. “A good girl who deserves a good fuck?”

“Ancestors, _please,_ ” Bethroot says with a quiet sob. Blackwall somehow manages to stay perfect still as she wiggles her ass back, taking in more of his cock. “Please fuck me.”

The desperation in her voice does him in, and he can do nothing but give her what she wants. With a sharp snap of his hips, Blackwall closes his eyes as her cunt surrounds him. Never will he have enough of this, of how tight she is, how her cunt almost seems to grip his cock, like she doesn’t want to let him go.

Maker, he wishes he could get a better view of her face as they start to fuck. He can almost picture the way her lips would be parted slightly, just waiting for him to kiss her and tug on her lower lip with his teeth. But instead he kisses her temple as she squeezes around him.

They’re both silent as they fuck. Blackwall’s lips press tightly together, wanting to make sure he makes no sound that a passerby could hear. Though if anyone did walk by, the sound of their bodies slapping together would be enough to give them away.

Bethroot’s breathing is getting quicker, a sure sign things are going well, so Blackwall moves his hand from her hip to her clit, happy to help move things along.

But then she moans. Loudly.

Without a second thought, Blackwall’s hand flies up to cover her mouth, so no more sound can be heard. Bethroot makes no protest, so he continues the thrust of his hips, whispering in her ear, “Do you wonder who heard that? Who here in camp knows we’re fucking right this very moment?”

Her cunt clenches around him then - _so fucking tight -_ and he won’t last much longer. Bethroot takes her hand off his hip, and by the way she whimpers into his hand, he thinks she’s touching herself. This, he wishes he could see, but the angle is all wrong. Picturing the last time he watched her touch herself - last week in Skyhold, when they shared a bath - Blackwall’s hips start to move faster.

Bethroot’s pushing against him now, and before he knows it, Blackwall’s lifts his hand off of her mouth and grunts loudly into the crook of his arm as he comes. Her hips haven’t stopped moving even as he finishes, so he pushes her hand away from her clit and takes over. “That’s my good girl,” he whispers breathlessly into her ear, putting a bit more pressure on his middle finger. He’s fucking exhausted now that he’s come, but until she’s done, he won’t rest. “Come for me, Bethy.”

A few seconds pass, but then he watches as she starts to tense, her hand covering her mouth. Her hips buck hard against his hand - Blackwall doesn’t let up on the pressure - until she stills completely, and when she does, he hears a moan in the back of her throat, one that she’s trying to swallow down so she can’t be heard.

After her moaning ends, Bethroot takes his hand and brings it up to her lips. When she lets go, Blackwall drags the tips of his fingers across the scar on her left cheek. “Let’s just stay in here forever,” she says softly.

“I’d give us three days before we’re ready to kill each other,” Blackwall says with a chuckle. She starts to sit up, but he wraps his arm around her waist. “Where are you going?”

“I’m just grabbing a rag to clean up,” she says.

“Why don’t you do that later?” he asks, thinking of her laying here next to him, his seed dripping out of her cunt, mixed with her wetness. “I’ll clean you up in the morning.”

The corner of her mouth turns up as she leans back against him, pulling up her trousers and smalls. “Deal.”


	3. Pillow Talk

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Religion isn’t exactly the best sort of pillow talk.”

“Oh _fuck_.”

Blackwall groans as Bethroot’s heels dig into the small of his back, silently asking for more. Happy to comply with his lady’s wishes, he puts a bit more effort into each thrust of his hips and is rewarded with her nails running down his sides. He tilts his head down - they’re not quite eye to eye, thanks to their height difference - and brushes his lips against her forehead. Bethroot raises her head at once, one hand on the back of his neck and they kiss, hard and hot.

He doesn’t understand how he simply can’t get enough of her, of this. Him, whose longest sexual relationship in thirty years had been a month long affair with a fellow officer until her promotion ended things between them. And even including their time apart, when he left to save Mornay, he and Bethroot been together for more than a year _. A fucking year._ And still every time feels like the first time.

“I’m close, so close,” Bethroot whispers in his ear.

Her voice is jagged as he feels the heat of her breath brush his skin, right below where his beard ends. He shifts, so most of his weight is on his left forearm while he slips his right hand under her ass, raising her hips just slightly. Bethroot throws back her head, as if in anticipation of the pleasure ahead and whimpers ever so slightly as she runs her fingers through his hair.

He slows his thrusts and tries to find that spot deep inside her, the one guaranteed to make her unravel. He’d like to think he’s just being a gentlemen, making sure his lady comes first, but Blackwall knows he’s simply being a greedy bastard. She’s already come once tonight, when he knelt before her, head between her legs, licking and tasting her like she was water in a bloody oasis. And now, he wants to her come again, wants to be inside her when she does, wants to feel her dwarf-sized cunt clamp around his very human-sized cock.

Blackwall kisses her again, reveling in her warmth as her fingers tease his scalp. He’s not going to be able to hold off much longer, not with the slick sounds of their bodies slapping together. Already he feels the pressure building with each thrust and is ready for his release. “Come for me, Bethy,” he says, practically breathless.

She lets out a gasp and Blackwall moves his arm back up, so he can brace himself. Just as she starts to come, Bethroot pulls his hair hard and the sharpness of the pain mingled with the heat of her cunt breaks down any reserves he might have.

“Fuck,” he groans as she clenches around him, him holding his breath, trying to make his orgasm last as long as possible. Underneath him, Bethroot holds him tight, trying to meet the erratic thrusts of his hips with her own as she milks him completely.

His eyes close as he stills, resting his cheek against her temple. He’s grown to cherish these moments, right after sex, when they’re quiet and finding themselves again.

Bethroot laughs weakly, her fingers massaging the area of his scalp where she pulled his hair. “Maker, you know how to fuck,” she says, her voice breathless.

Pride fills his chest as he rolls off of her, onto his side. She’s told him that before, but the compliment never gets old; he hopes it never will. But while the sentiment he’s heard a few times, the words are different. “Did you really just say the Maker’s name?” Blackwall asks with a laugh, pulling Bethroot flush against him. “Such a good fuck you’re invoking the name of a God you don’t even believe in?”

He expects a chuckle or a swat on his thigh, but she’s silent. One thing he’s learned about his lady over the last year is she likes to talk. About anything and everything. And when she doesn’t talk, that’s usually when she wants to speak the most. “What is it, love?” he asks, resting his hand on her belly.

“It’s nothing, Thom,” she says far too quickly, lacing her fingers with his own. “Religion isn’t exactly the best sort of pillow talk.”

“Not nothing if you want to talk about it,” he says, curious to know what she’s thinking.

She doesn’t say anything in response, and the silence stretches over them, long enough he thinks she’s fallen asleep. He’s about to close his eyes when she turns around and faces him. “The thing is, I’ve been thinking… With everything that’s happened…” He can see the worry on her face, in the way her mouth is drawn in a tight line. So Blackwall brings her close, wrapping his arms around her. When she speaks again, Bethroot’s voice is almost a whisper. “I don’t want to believe in a religion that will leave me behind.”

Blackwall sucks in his breath, remembering that horrible time when everyone thought her lost after Haven, when he learned about dwarven beliefs, that a surfacer would become a wraith instead of returning to the stone. “But you believe in the Stone,” he says.

“My mother believed in the Stone; she was from Orzammar. So I believed in the Stone,” Bethroot says. “I never really gave it much thought, until this.” She places her left hand on his chest, and he swears he feels a sensation from the Mark. “Cassandra gave me these horrible books to read about the history of the Chantry back in Haven. But I’m more curious about the Chant of Light.”

Ever since that night in Haven, when he thought her lost forever, and _especially_ since they’ve become a couple, Blackwall’s secretly hoped she might turn away from the Stone.  It’s not that he doesn’t appreciate dwarven beliefs, he does. He simply hates the idea of being forever without her in the afterlife _more_.

He’s never been a pious man, not really, but thanks to the events in his past, Blackwall wouldn’t mind becoming a bit more devoted to the Chantry. How can he doubt the Maker when He’s led him to Bethroot? Ever since he came back to Skyhold and the truth about his past known to everyone, Blackwall’s done his best to go to the weekly Chantry services. He feels awkward and out of place, yet welcome. It’s something he certainly wouldn’t mind sharing.

“I’ve been thinking of reading through the Chant of Light myself,” he says, trying to keep the hope out of his voice. “I’ve never actually read the damn thing before. Just heard bits and pieces in services.” He pushes her hair back behind her ear. She’s been growing her hair out a bit, making her face look rounder, a bit softer. “Maybe we could read it together.”

Bethroot trails her fingers down through his chest hair, her nails lighting scratching his skin, making him close his eyes at her touch. But he opens them again as she rests her head underneath his chin. “I think I’d like that.” 

“Canticle of Trials’s always been a favorite of mine. Might be a good place to start.”

He feels, rather than sees, her nod, and before he can stop himself, his imagination runs free, to a future where they attend services together and when they die, they both pass through the Fade, to be at the Maker’s side. If she’s to make this choice, it needs to be from her. The last thing Blackwall wants to do is pressure her into any sort of decision. Not when the faithful in Chantry already pray for Bethroot, not just to keep her safe as Inquisitor, but that the Maker might open her heart to Him. Perhaps He finally had.

Bethroot’s even breathing lets him know she’s about to fall asleep, so he closes his eyes, ready to get some rest as well. A good fuck always did make them tired.


	4. Impatience

They’ll never make it up the stairs.

Blackwall’s tempted to put her on his back, so he can take the steps two at a time, get them up to Bethroot’s quarters as fast as he can. But instead he takes her hand and they start the never ending climb.

The evening celebrating Corypheus’s defeat seemed like it would never end. Blackwall watched her as she flitted from group to group, thanking people, wishing them well, always with a smile on her face. He thinks that’s what she must have been like when she worked with the Carta, negotiating with nobles, making sure to always get the best price.

But then she locked eyes with him across the room, before deliberately looking at the door leading to her chambers, leaving him with no doubt what she wanted.

And now he’s already hard as they walk up the stairs.

After just one flight, he’s distinctly uncomfortable, thanks to the pressure between his legs, but the last thing he wants to do is tell his lady to hurry.

“Oh sod this,” Bethroot says as they’re about to start the next flight. She grabs his gambeson, pulling him down for a kiss, a kiss Blackwall returns eagerly as he cups her ass with the palms of his hands.

Her hands go to his trousers when they part, unlacing them quickly. By now, Bethroot can undress him almost faster than he can himself. “Someone could-” But he swallows down the rest of the sentence as she grabs his cock with both hands.

Bethroot takes a step up on the staircase, then, so they’re closer in height. Her back towards him now, she pulls down her trousers, giving him a beautiful view of her ass. Smiling over her shoulder, she says, “We’ll be quick.”


	5. I Just Want to Watch You

Bethroot thought to wait until she heard his heavy snores next to her. But Blackwall’s back is to her, and she can’t tell if he’s sleeping or not. **  
**

And she needs to get off now.

Not willing to wait any longer, Bethroot slips out of bed and grabs her robe, letting her fingertips glide across her skin as she does. One hand slides down her stomach, teasing the hair between her legs, before going a bit further.

A small whimper escapes her lips, and she drags her hand away. That’s what the water closet is for, Bethroot reminds herself sternly, taking a few steps away from the bed.

“Bethy?”

She lets out a sigh and turns around, hands behind her back. She’s not above trying to distract Blackwall with her breasts. “Yes?” she asks, trying to sound the picture of innocence, but it comes out more a snarl.

“What are you doing?” he asks, propping himself up on an elbow.

The words come out before she can stop them. “You said didn’t want to have sex tonight, which is fine, which is perfectly fine,” Bethroot says quickly. “But I’m a bit worked up, so I’m just going to take care of things in the water closet.”

“Why in the world would you do that?” Blackwall asks, before patting the space next to him. “You’ve got a perfectly good mattress right here.”

Bethroot shakes her head. Tempting as the offer is, she doesn’t want him to feel pressured at all. “Thank you, but I won’t be long-”

Blackwall lets out a low chuckle, and she’s running her palm over her thigh without even realizing it. “I’m not up for sex tonight, that’s true, he says. “But I’m damn well not going to miss the chance to watch you touch yourself.”

Without another word, Bethroot climbs back into bed, laying on her back. Staying on his side, he pulls her flush, so they’re right next to each other.

She’s never touched herself with someone watching before, so she decides to start with her breasts. One hand on each, rolling her nipples under her fingers, pinching ever so slightly.

“What are you going to think about?” Blackwall asks, his voice right next to her ear.

Fuck, his voice gets her every time. “You,” she whispers. She’s been dreaming of him ever since Haven, since that one day she realized how she felt. Every time her hand went between her legs, his face was the one she saw when she closed her eyes. His hands were the ones she imagined touching her, his cock filling her.

“But what about me?” he asks, causing her to shudder as his beard tickles her cheek. “Something we’ve done or maybe something we’ll do?”

Bethroot drags her palms down her belly, until her fingers reach her clit. She can already feel the tension building in her cunt, ready for her to complete the familiar motions that will lead to her release.

She taps her middle finger on her clit, then presses more firmly. As she finds a rhythm, Bethroot says, “Something we’ll do.”

“I can work with that,” Blackwall says, causing Bethroot to shiver as his hand brushes her breasts. “We haven’t talked much about fantasies. I know you must have some.”

Did she? Bethroot never had much time to think about them. In her four years with Lantos, they never spoke about them, and after their relationship ended, every spare moment was spent getting back in the Dasher’s good graces.

But with Blackwall, she could suddenly think of a number of things she’d like to do. With him and to him. “The War Table?” she asks, her voice becoming breathless as she takes her other hand and slips a finger into her cunt.

“That’s a common one,” Blackwall says, his voice rumbling. “I think everyone in Skyhold wants to have a fuck on that.”

“Oh,” Bethroot says, hearing a bit of disappointment in her voice as she starts to fuck herself.

“Did I say that was a bad thing?” Blackwall asks. “I can picture it. Probably be best if you were a dress. I’ll put you on your back, lift your skirts, then fuck you as hard as I can.”

Just the thought makes Bethroot dizzy. “Oh yes,” she says, taking the heel of her palm and grinding against it. She’s going to come soon, she’s too worked up not too.

“You love it when I fuck you hard, don’t you, Bethy?” Blackwall says, barely above a whisper.

She nods, not quite trusting herself to speak. But then she moans, and knowing Blackwall likes to hear her, Bethroot doesn’t bother to hold back.

Her orgasm descends without warning, causing her to tense while she presses against her clit, feeling pleasure deep within her belly and cunt, traveling all over her body. Once the sensation passed, Bethroot let out a sigh, completely satisfied.

Blackwall kisses her then, soft and slow, as she comes down by degrees. Taking a deep breath, Bethroot turns, so she’s lying in Blackwall’s arms. “So the war table. Think we could pull it off?”

His laugh is almost a grunt. “I think we bloody have to.”


	6. Connoisseur

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This was originally a stand alone fic, but I decided I would rather have it be with the rest of the smut! Based on some of Blackwall's concept art where he's got a cigar inbetween his teeth.

It’s the gale of laughter that catches her attention.

Master Dennet prefers quiet around the horses, so to hear people talking and laughing in the stables is rare. Bethroot recognizes Blackwall’s laugh at once - a deep, boisterous laugh she hears far too little of - as well as Cullen and Dorian.

It takes more than a bit of effort not to slip into stealth to investigate. But instead Bethroot almost tip toes into the stables, trying not to be noticed, and takes in the scene before her. Blackwall, Dorian, and Cullen stand around the fire pit, talking.

She then realizes hay and horses aren’t the dominating scents in the stables for once, but instead smoke, wood, and spices. That’s when she sees the open box of cigars on Blackwall’s workbench.

“Inquisitor!” Dorian calls out, holding up a cigar like a scepter. “Join us.”

Bethroot walks slowly towards the pit, watching Blackwall as he brings the cigar to his mouth and inhales. A moment later, he blows white smoke from his lips. There’s a practiced ease to his movements, the way he tilts back his head, revealing his neck, to the way his lips form a perfect O.

It’s almost beautiful to watch and she finds it hard to keep her eyes off of him. He catches her staring then, and smiles. Bethroot swears she sees a hint of a smirk in that smile and definitely hears it in his voice as he says, “My lady.”

“Would you care for one, Inquisitor?” Dorian asks, after taking a puff of his cigar. “A gift from Rivain, so Cullen says.”

Cullen coughs. “I know I shouldn’t have just taken them, but I wanted to make sure Blackwall had the chance for one.” Looking over at Blackwall, Cullen adds, “I told you I wouldn’t forget our conversation back in Haven. How does Rivain stack up?”

“I didn’t realize you were a connoisseur,” Bethroot says, moving over next to Blackwall. It’s early in the evening, and she’s finished her work for the day, so she leans against his side and doesn’t feel guilty. Blackwall puts his free arm around her shoulder at once. It’s not often he shows affection like this in front of others and Bethroot hopes she doesn’t look _too_ pleased.

There’s a hint of redness in his cheeks as he answers. “I’ve simply been lucky to smoke a few good cigars in my day,” he says, squeezing her shoulder, before focusing on Cullen. “Bit herbal for my tastes, but I wouldn’t turn up my nose at it. The best cigar I ever smoked was a Nevarran one. Tasted of cedar and nutmeg and leather.”

“That sounds delicious,” Dorian says. “Obviously we need to find a reason for Nevarra to send us presents.”

A messenger walks into the stable and Bethroot sighs, wondering who needed what. But when the messenger starts to speak to Cullen instead, Bethroot puts her arm around Blackwall’s waist and leans in closer.

“Do you want one?” Blackwall asks quietly.

She shakes her head. She’s had a few cigars in her day, mainly down in Orzammar to celebrate a business deal, but she never really enjoyed them all that much. Much better if someone who would really appreciate the cigar has one instead.

“Well, it’s back to work for me,” Cullen says, picking up the box of cigars.

“Anything wrong?” Bethroot asks more out of habit than anything else.

“Nothing you need to worry about, Inquisitor,” Cullen says at once. “If that changes, you’ll know immediately.”

Trying not to sound too relieved, Bethroot says, “Thank you.” It’s been a few nights since she’s had time off in the evening, and some time alone with Blackwall sounds just about perfect.

“Thank you for the cigar, Cullen,” Blackwall says, raising the cigar in a mock salute.

“Any time,” Cullen says, before walking off.

Without Cullen next to him, Dorian seems quite out of place in the stables. “Well, I think I’ll see if Cabot has any decent brandy to go with this cigar. I’m sure he doesn’t, but what is life without a little risk?”

“Good night, Dorian,” Bethroot says while Blackwall simply nods.

Moments later, they’re alone in the stables. Bethroot walks to his workbench, leaning back against it. Placing the cigar between his teeth, Blackwall grabs her hips and lifts her up onto the table.

Leaning slightly forward, Bethroot rests her arms on his shoulders and inhales deeply. Blackwall smells different, because of the cigar, and she’ll admit it’s a _very_ nice smell. The herbal scent he dismissed has a wonderful aroma to her.

“May I have a taste?” she asks, running her fingers through the end of his hair, pulling just a tiny bit, the way she know he likes.

Blackwall’s eyes flutter close for a moment before he offers her the cigar. She shakes her head. “Not what I meant,” Bethroot says with a sly grin.

“Little minx,” he says, inhaling deeply on the cigar. Bethroot stays still as he lowers his head just so, pressing his lips against hers. Once she opens her mouth, Blackwall opens his and blows over the smoke.

It tastes of wood and nuts and a hint of elfroot and maybe even crystal grace. The smoke swirls around in her mouth for just a moment before she blows out the rest. “Oh I like that,” she says, with a hint of a cough. Grabbing the front of Blackwall’s gambeson, she adds, “I wouldn’t mind a more thorough test, though.”

He lets out a dark chuckle that goes straight down to her cunt. They kiss, with Blackwall staying still as she lightly traces her tongue against his, so she can taste as much as possible. When Bethroot breaks off the kiss to breath, he gives her only a moment, before his arms are around her completely, and their lips together again.

His tongue still tastes of the cigar, along with a hint of mint, from the small leaves she’s seen him chew after a meal. But it’s not so much Blackwall’s tongue she wants to taste now, as the rest of him. Bethroot tilts her head to suck on the sensitive skin on his neck, where his beard ends, relishing the shudder she feels from him.

“We should go upstairs, Bethy,” Blackwall says, a slight strain in his voice.

“Yes,” she agrees, no louder than a whisper.

In response, Blackwall places the cigar between his teeth, before planting his hands firmly on her ass, lifting her up. Bethroot clasps her hands behind his neck, while bracing her knees on either side of his waist.

The first time he carried her like this, Bethroot wanted to protest, thinking it undignified. But now she quite enjoys how close they are when he does, and being eye-level does have it’s advantages.

Securing herself with one arm, she plucks the cigar from his lips, then kisses him. It’s a quick kiss, an urgent kiss, a kiss that demands _more._ It’s almost over before it’s truly begun and Blackwall starts the ascent up the staircase.

“Do you have any idea how badly I need my head between your legs?” Blackwall says once they’ve made it to the loft.

Bethroot leans back her head and smiles slowly, grabbing a fur pelt from the pile as they pass. There’s a real ache now, between her thighs, one that won’t be abated until he has his hands or mouth on her.

Thankfully, they reach what Bethroot has to come to consider ‘their spot’ and he sets her down on covered bale of hey. He takes the fur from her, and places it down. His gloves come off quickly, along with his gambeson. No other clothes will be removed tonight, she knows; neither one of them feel comfortable getting naked in the loft when people are still in the courtyard.

When Blackwall kneels next to her, Bethroot can’t help but reach out and stroke his cock through the fabric of his trousers. He leans in to kiss her then, but Bethroot moves back, resting on her elbows.

Then deliberately as possible, she brings the cigar to her lips, taking a puff, her eyes never leaving his. The human cigar feels strange in her small hands and she guesses looks almost obscene in her dwarf-size mouth. But by how intently Blackwall stares as her, she decides he doesn’t mind.

The moment she takes another drag, Blackwall’s unlacing her trousers, before pulling them down, along with her smalls, to her knees. She wants to put the cigar down, so she has both hands free as Blackwall works, but the last thing she wants to do is start a fire in the loft.

So she holds on to the cigar while Blackwall brings his face up to her cunt, just close enough she can feel his breath against her skin. “Maker,” he whispers, causing his beard tickling the inside of her thighs.

The temptation is too great, and Bethroot lifts her hips, just slightly, but enough to brush his nose against her clit. The sensation almost feels like a jolt, as worked up as she is. But to her dismay, Blackwall sits up and reaches out his hand, clearly asking for the cigar. “One day, Bethy, you’ll learn the value of patience,” he says slowly.

Leaning her head back, mostly in frustration - his mouth and tongue were _right there_ \- she hands him the cigar and resists bringing her hand around to do the job herself. Instead, she watches him carefully ash the tip of the cigar on the floor, smothering it out at once. Then he runs the tips of his fingers up the inside of her thighs, before pushing her legs a bit wider.

Bethroot forces herself to remember to breathe. She wants him to touch her. She _needs_ him to touch her, yet instead of doing just that, when she’s spread open, her cunt wet and glistening, Blackwall brings the cigar to his nose and takes a deep breath.

He’s played this game before, and Bethroot knows, she _knows_ , if she says one word telling him to speed up, he’ll go even slower. It’s maddening sometimes dealing with a man who can at times seem like he has all the time in the world, when she wants nothing more than _now._

She bites her lower lip as Blackwall inhales once, then leans his head back and blows the smoke through his lips. He takes the end of the cigar and drags it up her thigh, before circling her slit. The end is slightly damp, but cool and firm, and Bethroot closes her eyes, imaging his tongue instead, and all those maddening things he can do with it.

A moan escapes, and Bethroot clenches her teeth, to keep more sound from coming out. Ever since the night Desmond clearly heard them together, they’ve both tried to keep quiet when they’re up in the loft. It’s a shame, too, as Bethroot can’t get enough of the sounds Blackwall makes - grunts and groans and filthy words - when they fuck.

His finger slips inside her and lays back so she can play with her breasts, rolling her fingers over the fabric of her tunic, and pinching her nipples softly, then harder as he adds a second finger.

Slowly, maddeningly slowly, Blackwall starts to fuck her with his fingers. She matches his rhythm with her hips, warmth beginning to spread throughout her belly. Within moments, the only sound is the slickness of her cunt. He speeds up, and the sound gets loud enough, she’s sure she must have coated his entire hand with her wetness.

And then he stops. So suddenly, that Bethroot snaps her head up to see what’s the matter.

“Bethy,” he says, practically a moan. Craning her neck, Bethroot sees he has the cigar at the tip of her opening. She inhales sharply, practically a hiss, as she realizes what he wants to do.

Her hands leave her breasts at once, and she scrambles to prop herself up on her forearms so she can watch him work. Blackwall looks at at her again, silently asking for permission, she thinks.

“Please,” Bethroot says, trying to spread her legs wider, though with her trousers around her ankles, she can only go so far. “Oh Ancestors, yes.”

She's not sure why the idea is just so _inviting_. Perhaps it's the unknown or just trying something different. Whatever the reason, Bethroot can't think anything more she wants at this very moment.

With one hand he spreads open the lips of her cunt, while the other gently guides just the tip of the cigar inside of her. The sensation is different, not like his cock, or fingers, or the smooth wooden toy Blackwall likes to tease her with sometimes. She's careful to stay loose and tries not to tense as he pushes the cigar deeper inside her.

When it’s about halfway in, Blackwall slowly start to rotate the cigar and she stares, absolutely transfixed at the sight. “How’s this feel?” he asks, before taking his free hand and lightly rubbing on her clit.

Bethroot tries to think of a word other than _different_ and comes up short, thanks to whatever he’s doing with his sodding fingers. Biting back a moan, she says, “Good, but I think I’d rather have your cock.”

His free hand moves to his own laces then. “Always so fucking greedy for my cock, aren’t you, Bethy?” There’s a bit of pride and hunger mixed together in his voice, and Bethroot wishes they took the time to go to his quarters, so they could be properly alone, and he could keep talking.

She gives just a bit of a nod, because it’s true, it’s _so_ true. Maybe it’s because he’s human, and he’s bigger than anyone she’s fucked before. Or maybe it’s because they’ve finally worked through their beginning awkwardness, and have learned how to move together. Whatever the reason, she wants him, and his cock, more than anyone she’s ever wanted before.

Wetting her lips, Bethroot lays back, keeping her eyes locked on his, as she feels him take out the cigar. He brings the end to his nose and takes a long sniff. His eyes close, and she lays there, completely transfixed, as he places the cigar between his lips and inhales deeply.

“That Nevarran cigar has nothing on this, now,” Blackwall says, taking another puff, his other hand pulling his cock free from his trousers. Bethroot sits up and grabs the base of his cock, stroking up slowly, pre-come sliding between her fingers as she feels every vein beneath her palm.

She watches him swallow back a moan, taking the cigar from his mouth, before offering it to her. Once she’s formed an O shape with her lips, Blackwall puts the cigar in mouth. The taste is _incredible:_ her wetness mingled with the smoky flavors of the cigar.

Flopping back onto the bale of hay, Bethroot inhales slowly, keening aware of Blackwall’s eyes on her. Just when she thinks she’ll touch herself while smoking, giving him a bit of a show, he puts his hands under her ass, lifting her hips.

His head is between her legs, then, fingers stroking her clit while his tongue glides around her opening. “I can taste the cigar,” he says, sounding muffled. The vibrations from the words course through her, and Bethroot balls up her fists, needing _more._

“Good still, I hope,” Bethroot says, hearing a hint of desperation in her voice. Instead of responding, his tongue delves further in, and she has her answer.

His fingers replace his tongue only moments later, and she tries to stay patient as he stretches her out, making sure she’s ready for his cock, since they didn’t have any oils up here in the loft. But his tongue isn’t idle, licking her clit with those swift little movements that drives Bethroot absolutely _mad._

Blackwall puts his free hand on her belly, and the pressure, combined with the sounds of her cunt, wet and slick, unlocks her body. A moan starts to form, and Bethroot clamps her hand over her mouth, to make sure they can’t be heard. She comes, biting the heel of her palm to keep quiet, digging her boots into the floor.

When she’s done, Blackwall pulls her up to a sitting position, and they kiss. Bethroot tastes the cigar and her wetness, and revels in feeling the dampness of his beard and the slight stickiness of his nose.

“I need you, Bethy,” Blackwall says, gruffness lingering over every word. “Ready?”

“Yes, _please,_ ” she says with a nod, before laying back down, rolling the cigar in her fingers. Her breath is shallow, but she’s ready. She needs his cock inside her, filling her up to the point where she’s almost uncomfortable, but not quite.

It takes a moment as he adjusts himself, but then his hands are on her hips, and they start to fuck.

There’s no sense of patience in the swing of his hips, Bethroot thinks, raising her knees slightly to brace herself. Blackwall sets a demanding pace, and her breasts bounce with thrust.

She wants to close her eyes, think of nothing but Blackwall’s cock and how it feels inside her - the sense of fullness is _amazing_ \- but his eyes are locked on hers. With her free hand, Bethroot places it on top of his, wanting to touch as much as him as possible. She will never, ever, have enough of him.

“Soon,” Blackwall grunts, digging his fingers into her hips.

She knows what he’s wondering, but Bethroot’s had a long day. One orgasm is plenty right now, she decides. “I’m good,” she pants. “Let me see you come.”

Blackwall keeps thrusting and she takes a moment to study him. The wrinkles around his eyes, and the broken nose - one day she’ll gather the courage to ask about it - and his slightly chapped lips, currently pressed together in a thin line. There’s sweat forming at his temples, and a slightly strained look on his face.

And then, just after she clenches around him, Bethroot watches as that stress drains away, the lines on his forehead smoothing out a bit and his mouth relaxes into a soft sort of smile. He grinds his hips, fingers holding her so tightly she’s sure she’ll be bruised in the morning, before he takes a deep breath. “Maker’s balls,” he says quietly.

The only sound in the loft now is the two of them catching their breaths. Bethroot puts one hand behind her head and brings the cigar to her lips, taking a puff, enjoying the taste of her wetness mingled with the herbs and spices.

He slips out of her, then, so Bethroot sits up and wraps her arms around Blackwall, just wanting to be held for a little. Resting her cheek against his shoulder, and feeling the warmth of his body, she lets herself forget everything for a moment, except for the way he’s rubbing her back with his free hand.

They stay together for not nearly long enough, and she wonders why this is the only time he’s still, after he comes. But that’s a mystery for another day, she decides.

Once he stands up, Blackwall shakes out his bad knee while he looks around. “I think someone moved the pile of clean rags I brought up,” he says as he laces up his trousers.

Bethroot let out a small laugh as she hands him the cigar. “Then you’ll simply have to walk through the courtyard, knowing what a dripping mess I am, until I have a chance to clean up,” she says, pulling up her smalls and trousers.

“Void, why’d you have to say that?” Blackwall asks, dropping his head so his chin almost hits his chest. “Now I’ll think of nothing else.”

“Exactly,” Bethroot says, knowing she sounds far too pleased with herself. Standing, she looks behind her, and sees the dampness left on the bale of hay. Without needing to ask, Blackwall picks up another bale and puts it on top, covering their tracks.

She grabs his hand, tugging slightly, and Blackwall leans down and kisses her. It’s a soft kiss, an echo of the ones they had before, but no less special in her eyes.

He takes a puff of the cigar, before bringing it to his nose. “I’m going to enjoy every last bit of this.”

“You always are thorough,” Bethroot says, as they start to walk down the stairs to the stables. She’s ready to enjoy the rest of the evening, feeling relaxed and _very_ refreshed.

Master Dennet walks into the stables as they take the last few steps. “Blackwall,” Denent says. “I heard there were some cigars from Rivain floating around. That true?”

She tightens her grip on Blackwall’s hand and tries not to laugh.

“It is,” Blackwall says, holding up the cigar to show Dennet. “It’s a good one. Cullen had them last.” As they start to walk out of the courtyard hand in hand, he adds, “I’d offer you a taste, but I’m keeping this one all to myself.”


End file.
